


Darkness Exists To Make Light Truly Count.

by ghettoassenglishman



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Based off a song, Bipolar Ian, M/M, Sad Mickey, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, cheating mentioned, progression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 01:24:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3230963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking one last gulp he stood up. The feeling of power just striking him once. The gun was firmly in his palm, off safety and ready to hit, he climbed to the edge, peering over; It wasn't beautiful, it wasn't that light at the end of the tunnel, but at least he could fly for that split second.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkness Exists To Make Light Truly Count.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have always been inlove with Sleeping at last - Uneven odds, and I really need to write something on it. Its a little dark but I wanted to cover every aspect. -its quite long but please don't be put off by its length, lul
> 
> I love my babies but I know their relationship is going to become rocky, especially with the bipolar disorder, but I know and hope they will get through it. 
> 
> Please tell me what you thought of itttt

The weight of the world was always placed on Mickey's shoulders. More than _placed_ , bulldozed into his face by his violent, prick of a father. Each singular responsibility given to him, without any consent beforehand. It was always the case, _his only case_. Each day he would be left picking up the shattered pieces of the people around him, unnoticeable to the world around him because he did it in a way that wasn't accepted. Throwing punches to protect, beating the creeps hands off his sister, shooting any fucker that tried to cross him. Stealing from the local shop because even though they were pumping money, it wasn't exactly going to food. South side life was defiantly not easy and _defiantly_ not legal.

 

The first time he felt the crush of people _needing_ him, and not because they chose to need him- they saw he was able to help, they saw his ability to make the world look so _easy;_ he was eight years old. The passage of time that was meant for childhood, feeling the breeze of the wind flow through your shirt as you ran across first base, planning your wildest dreams like they were initially there to reach for; Not for Mickey. Childhood was a fantasy, he was not granted a time for games or running around carefree; reality was the key. Money was the key. Feeding those in the house was a struggle and using a gun was its answer. Despite his age, Terry insisted he was equal to the rest, that staying at home with Mandy was childish and he needed to become a proper man. Mickey never understood that term, he never felt he ever could fulfil the shoes his father had cold-heartedly plunged in-front of him. 

 

After his mom died, he felt nothing but anger. Despite her drug addiction and sheer distant presence, she was the  _only_ light in his life; the only person that would try to stop Terry from killing his own offspring. The red bull under his masked persona was clearly radiating off his skin; a ball of fire ready to explode and destroy everything in its path. His father would smile and nod in approval, telling him that anger was what he needed to be strong. Mickey was only eight, he had no clue of what other kids were told. Expecting that they, too, were being taugt that holding a gun at eight and firing at targets was a suitable childhood. As soon as his mom died he felt the responsibility of his sister, he felt her pressed against him each night, crying and retching for some sort of comfort Mickey was never capable of giving. Anger was his only known emotion, the only feeling that pulsed through his veins along side his blood. He had never been taught anything else, he didn't understand the concept of  _love._ Terry would scream at Mandy, push her off Mickey just as he would their mother, and Mickey felt that protectiveness, he felt the sense of Mandy being the  _only_ good thing in his life. Noticing that she was the only person that his anger never really lashed out on, she was younger, more vulnerable, she needed that protection. 

 

One night he managed to escape the house, a gun clasped in his palm like it always was. Terry had taught over and over again, shoot first ask questions later, so he followed it. Trusting that every word his father spoke was the truth, because who didn't take in what their parents told them? The neighbourhood was riddled with drug dealers and coke heads. A particular drunk would roam bashing on doors, his dad always told him that was a Gallagher- _always stay away from the Gallagher's._ Terry would tell him they were scrounging, bottom of the pit, nobodies, who would all end up turning out like their disappearing act of a father. Mickey thought the world of his dad, he didn't question that his dad was like that too.

 

Despite all this shitty qualities to his varied neighbourhood, he felt no sense of fear towards it. The darkness was starting to become a good friend of his, a strange abundance that felt comforting. At eight years old he was able to hold a gun and shoot six cans down straight in under five minutes. At eight years old he was able to pick lock a door without any supplies but a paperclip. At eight years old he was able to jack a car, and smuggle whatever drugs within its compartments, _even_ drive it home if his dad demanded it. There was no childhood, he had always been the adult.

 

At eight years old he was in great fear of the weight of the sky suspended on his shoulders. This weight was a a heavy burden, that as a child you shouldn't be given- he knew that, but he grew to think whatever he knew was bullshit. Whatever anyone but his dad said, was bullshit. Life was bullshit. Even with the thoughts of his sister still living in a house full of verified hatred, he still stepped onto the rail as if it was a climbing frame. The only sense of being young reflected off the glimmering bars elevated over the ice covered lake. It was true to say, it would be the fall that would kill him. Not the fact, that when he'd fall through the ice would form over him- no escape known to get out, but he guessed that situation, he was already used too.

 

At eight years old, Mickey considered taking his own life. The weight pushing him further towards his destination, but yet again, the responsibility of who  _needed_ him still lingered, he had thought about what it would like be without him, more times than he'd liked to, but he couldn't shift the words Mandy once spoke of. Ones he heard years later, where the same circumstance occurred.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

 

Mickey had never got the saying of “there's a light at the end of a tunnel”, he never believed in any shitty light. All his life he had been living in the dark, feeding off the dark, making sure the dark stayed where it was. Light was just a fantasy, something people used to reassure themselves that there was something much greater than the shitty life they had to lead. Mickey knew better, he always knew better.

 

Until that one day, where light did seem a possibility. In Mickey's enclosed mind, he never saw the light at the end of the tunnel, nor did he believe he ever would. How could you possibly believe in something that you had been taught your whole life was a lie? How could good come from a place infested with darkness, and constant evil? There was no light at the end of the tunnel, because the tunnel didn't even exist. Mickey didn't have a purpose, he didn't had a path leading to his destined fate- and maybe he should of taken his life.

 

The light seemed distant, barely in view, but it was still there, lingering in the corner of his room, holding a tyre iron. Each time it flickered his pushed it away in his mind; if his dad found out then he might not ever see it again. With a poke to his back, he thought a drug run was undergo and he groaned in the thought of knowing bruises were indeed ready to come, except it wasn't his raging father or dumb fuck of a brother, it was Ian. Ian fucking Gallagher. The redheaded fuck was standing there, breathing heavily with his mop of hair falling across his eyes.

 

“Gallagher?” he groaned out, knowing that at this point he should move faster, before any shit could go down. He had heard of Ian, and maybe seen him a couple of times, Mandy was obsessed with the kid. Mickey remembered not only long ago when he went out to beat the fuck out of him, _no one fucks with Mandy,_ taking all day just to seek him out. The spray paint was still lingering against his skin, the cramp between his fingers from holding the bat still twitching. He didn't give a shit if Gallagher was there to demand some shitty apology for beating Lip up like a plump, _he wasn't fucking sorry._ As usual, Mandy just couldn't take a rejection, she was demanding of guys, Mickey knew she was just insecure.

 

“I want my gun back, Mickey.” He sounded so confident, like he had rehearsed the whole encounter over a couple of times. Mickey darted up, the iron still pressed into his back- even though the light was slightly glimmering through the green eyes, and the redhair was intimately turning him on, he pounced for the first punch. Terry would always say that Gallagher's were enemies- _shoot first, ask questions later._ However, the frustration of a squealing Gallagher, and the grunts between forceful pushes, he felt that tingle in his pants. Ian saw it, Mickey saw it. It was clear as day, that Mickey was fucked for hiding his boner, in his now tight pants.

 

Terry always told him not to fuck with the Gallagher's, and yet there he was ass deep full of Ian Gallagher's cock. Yet again piling on the stack of responsibility, a new encounter. To add onto the lack of love from his father, he had to go and be a gay.  _Fucking gay._ So many times he had tried to push the thought down,  _its just a phase._ He would tell himself,  _its just because that guy looks like a girl, not because of his cock bulging in his pants,_ and most importantly,  _Ian Gallagher is just a fuck, nothing more._ Each day he would repeat it, hoping that those words would imprint themselves in his memory- but it just created a mask, mixing with the already brewing pot of anger. 

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

Now, at 20 years old he was stuck with a life of taking care of every little thing, the heavy burden of life still resting heavy on his weakened, cracked shoulders. After coming out, literally in the front of the whole neighbourhood, people seemed more accepting, but he just felt that they were hiding so he wouldn't smash their faces. Times change, the past doesn't. Mandy was constantly being beaten, her face reflecting only memories to Mickey was what Terry did to their mom. He swore to himself that he would get rid of Kenyatta, that finally his sister could be safe for  _once_ in her life, but that fucker was a giant and even if Ian could push him against the counter with a knife, they still couldn't take him. It was his responsibility to protect his sister, whoever touched her wrongly would be beaten to a shrimp and he was clear about that. Very fucking clear. But Kenyatta, he was fucking big, he could squish Mickey if he wanted too, but it was worth it if it meant Mandy getting out alive. 

 

Then there was the fucking kid, he had grown to love the little shit, but found it hard to even come to terms with expressing it. Ian was all for it, doing Mickey's job better than he could ever try. Each time he looked at the squirming baby he just saw _that_ day; all he could see was the pain in Ian's eyes and he wasn't sure if he could take that. _Yev_ , they all would call him this because having a stupid Russian name was fucking prone to being bullied, and Yev was close to Kev, or Bev, equally grating names, but better than Yevyeny. Ian felt different about it, always calling the kid by his _real_ name- making sure that Mickey would too. Yet, the weight still lingered, the light was still distant, and the tunnel still cracked.

 

Svetlana had become a somewhat friend, despite her raping him before Ian then being forced to marry him, she was tolerable. Even though, everytime he saw her face he pictured that day, the crumbling fracture of his bodies system, and yet again his walls closed up. It seemed that day that nothing was worth it, that letting his guard down was nothing but a unhappy ending. It made him  _believe_ in his father's words, that life didn't have a light to the end of tunnel- it was just black, because no matter what life knocked you to the grown at kept you there- blinding you from what you might have. Ian and Svetlana were stuck like lifetime friends, fucking laughing, smoking, helping eachother looking after the kid; it made him that tiny bit jealous that Ian could just  _forgive_ like nothing happened. But Ian was always like that; Mr fucking selfless.

 

Then there was Ian, the only person who wanted to be with Mickey, not only because he needed him- because he  _wanted_ him. Needing and wanting were not the same thing, there was a fine line between the walls built against them both. Ian always found a route, a mazed path that broke the door to Mickey's walls. There was always a smile, a choice of words, a nudge to the shoulder that crumbled the locks that closed Mickey off from wanting more. As soon as he thought happiness was at their break, it all came collapsing, like the walls Mickey once built. Ian  _needed_ him then, not that he said, he was always reluctant or too shy to ask for help- that was his fatigue. Their roles had suddenly reversed. 

 

“Rise and fucking shine, Cinderella” even hearing those words in the back of his mind, made him realise how stupid he was, not to notice there was something wrong with Ian. The tunnel had finally started to mend, plaster building up the holes within its walls, then he saw the lifeless body of the redhead he called his light, lying as if the world was unnoticeable to him. Mickey could feel his whole life drop, his moments of hurt flashing back to him almost like a story, and yet nothing damaged him as much as that. Ian was lively, always talking more than he should, and laughing like the mad-hatter when the time was irrelevant but yet, under everyone’s noses, out of sight, he was breaking down, slowly, painfully, unable to grip back to the surface like he always did. Mickey couldn't say he understood, because no one could understand another person's mind, but he felt as if it wouldn't of happened if Mickey had taken his own life that day. Maybe Ian would be out fulfilling his dreams, getting into West Point and becoming that officer he always inspired to be. Maybe Ian would have never gone to that gay club, never had to cry over Mickey because his heart was _always_ getting broken. Maybe he didn't have to put up with the _fucked_ so-called established family. Maybe if the weight had pushed Mickey more further, then the burden would fall too. 

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

 

“You have to take your med's Ian.” Mickey was trying to be calm, contracting his chest so it was in rhythm with his steady breathing , but the situation was getting more aggravating because Ian, yet again, was refusing to take his medication. Mickey was angry with Ian, he was angry with life, he was angry that he felt fucking helpless and for once he couldn't use his fists to sort it out. The light he once noticed to believe in, was slowly fading away, and he felt his body crush under the weight of knowing that there was a possibility that light could disappear completely.

 

“Go away.” Is all Ian could reply, his voice barely able to hear. Mickey wondered if he could plant himself within Ian's mind, extract the shit that was tearing him apart and take it out as easy as found. But he knew the true reality. For once he wished his lived in that fantasy he once created in his mind, a place where Ian was himself, that this disorder was nothing but a flu caught in the wind. That only taking medication was too sooth a headache, and that moving knives from the kitchen was because knew ones needed to be replaced.

 

Mickey moved closer, a plate in his grasp piled up with some pancakes and a glass of water between his other. The caring nature hadn't come by chance, he had lived by the world of anger, knowing that everything he touched turned to shit, and yet again the words he so wanted to disguise as a lost memory were hitting the jackpot.  _You turn everything you touch into a bundling mess of rubble._ Ian was a mess, Ian was the rubble. Mickey felt he had bulldozed him down countless times, breaking him slowly each time he pushed him away. “You better take these fucking med's man, I will shove them down ya throat if I have to.” There it was again, the Terry Milkovich peeping through his skin- he pushed it away before he could say anything else, waiting for Ian to move a little, show he was still breathing. 

 

“No.” Is all he heard as the redhead turned from his sight, pushing himself further under the cover. Mickey put down the plate causing a slight slam, he pulled back the shaking quilt- trying to see Ian as he was. Before he knew it Ian was pushing him away, clawing at his shirt to go backwards. “Just go away! You did this you fucking prick, you made me like this and I hate it. Stop pretending like you want to care for me, who would _want_ to care for this!” 

 

Mickey's mind went blank, his whole life lessons thrown through the window, his only instinct to try restrain him into not hurting himself. Mickey came to realise that Ian couldn't be saved by him, he had to help Ian save himself. As much as he tried you can't be fixed by the person who broke you and Mickey always believed it was he, who had broken Ian. Over the years he saw Ian get stronger, _better,_ making something of himself because he had that ability, he had that drive to do better. He was always better than Mickey. Now, after Mickey had managed to push him so far down, he dropped from his peak, a demolition into action; just a bundle of weight in a pile of sheets waiting for the next whisper to come. That strange feeling, he felt those years back, came springing to his mind. Seeing Ian like _this,_ feeling the way his whole body shook making the bed move as he did, he couldn't help but think it. He couldn't help but think of it over everything else. Because Ian was his everything.

 

If only he had knew that, told himself that, those years ago.

 

Mickey had left the room, biting his lip to stop himself from shedding the tears he didn't feel he was worthy enough to give. Mandy was looking at him with pity, but he grimaced at the look, he didn't need pity, Ian needed fucking pity. Ian was the one hurting not Mickey. _He just had to keep telling himself that._

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

“Should we call Fiona, he's freaking out.” Mandy had asked him the day Ian had gone total craze-ball, rummaging around the house for guns, grenades; you fucking name it. They were at the funeral, he had made sure he would go because there was a feeling something was going to go wrong. Ian had picked up that cross and planned to kill some fuckers with it, as much as Mickey had learned violent _was_ the answer, it wasn't _Ian's_ answer.

 

“What and let her send him to some shrink? _No.”_ And he meant it, thinking about Ian talking to someone who would call him crazy, wasn't going to help him. Ian wasn't sick, he was just traumatized, he didn't need med's surely, not now that he was doing better. _He ain’t sick, he ain't sick._ Ian couldn't get sick; he was this super machine with invincible body functions, always level-headed in a way that couldn't be destroyed. Mickey always hated the fact that he could knock that down, that he could be the only person to crack that.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

_I've cheated on you Mick._ They were just words, some stupid fucking words. Ian didn't mean them, it was just his bi-polar speaking.  _I did it more than once._ Fuck Ian, fuck him and his idiotic jokes; he wasn't even funny, as much as he felt he was.  _I still love you, but I can't do this to you._ Ian should have a degree in speaking bullshit because he wasn't leaving, he would never leave, not after all the shit they had been through. 

 

It was ironic how Ian was the one that cheated but Mickey was the one who got left. It was ironic how Ian was the one with the mental illness but Mickey was re-thinking whether the gun in his hand should be on safety whilst it was pointed to his head.

 

Mickey had just came home from his shitty job, just wanting to finally feel his boyfriend's arms around him, but it wasn't what he was welcomed with when he opened that door. He was stood, just as Ian was the day he had left, his brows furrowing as he watched Ian push things into an old duffel. He had initially reckoned that he was just spending some nights at home, but since when did Ian ever pack for home? Since when did he need his whole drawers worth of clothes just for one night. 

 

“What the fuck you doin'?” It came out snappy, but that's how his heart felt. Ian had puffy cheeks and red rimmed eyes; something was off and he knew it wasn't good. Ian was in his mania stages, seizing the moment, cleaning the house for the billionth time, but this was different. The cracks in his shoulders were widening, letting the weight heave onto his back as he tried to cross the path of bursting at the seams. _You break everything you touch. “Gallagher?_ Don't act like you can't hear me, I'm stood right fucking here.” 

 

Ian was yet again ignoring, his eyes only focusing on the clothes he had managed to stuff. “This is the for the best Mickey.” He said it like it didn't hurt. Like it  _was_ for the best, but they both knew it wasn't. Mickey knew it wasn't. Ian had turned around, his face fully showing how he was feeling; dark rims under his eyes, sinking into his skin like his whole life was swallowed by the depths of his darkness, the darkness Mickey was willing to sink into too. 

 

“I cheated on you.” Ian's voice was strong but quiet, his eyes casting off so he didn't have to catch Mickey's reaction. Mickey wasn't sure what he was facing there, he didn't feel anything. The beat his heart he used to feel was faded, faded behind the closing walls that chained themselves back up again. He had built himself up for Ian, pushed away that prick of a father, protected his ass as much as he could, and yet he couldn't help Ian protect himself from his own demons. “More than once.”

 

That was it, Mickey's shoulders slumped. “You  _ what _ ?” he didn't realise why he had asked; he didn't want to hear it. The anger he felt when he found his mom still on the couch, pushing itself back up his throat ,slowly pouring out. Ian was out fucking other guys when he was out working for med's that obviously weren't working. The betrayal sunk into his bones, clasping tight around him letting the words of his father finally barricade around him.  _ Waste of fucking space. You ain't worth shit, so why act like it. Get by through your fists son, love is for the weak, and we ain't weak.  _ No matter how much Terry had drilled that, Love was sure not weak because he had never felt a hit this hard ever in his life; nothing hurt like this, no punch, no burn, no pistol whip could compare. 

 

Ian stepped closer, the bag slung over his shoulder as if he was already gone, Mickey rolled his shoulders back the tears threatening but he was able to push them back. “I still love you.”  _ Yeh, fucking right. If you still loved me you wouldn't have cheated. If you still loved me you wouldn't be leaving me-ditching me like I never meant shit. If you still loved me you would see that I-  _ He didn't let his thoughts carry on, he didn't want to think it if Ian would never hear it. 

“But I can't do this to you.” Next Minute Ian was gone, no kiss, no hug, nothing that Mickey could latch onto while he wept on Ian's side of the bed. The last thing he knew of Ian was the clear scent of someone else on his skin, Ian swept passed him and he caught it. It ticked the clock that was rattling in his mind, making it speed up and push him further to the edge.

 

Ian was gone, he wasn't coming back. He made that clear, even if he didn't say it. Mickey had found himself in the abandoned roof, a bottle in his hand and a gun in his lap.  _ Like father like son.  _ He didn't know what his intentions were but he had told Mandy he wouldn't be home for a while. Maybe, ever. The sky was growing dark and he was glad that he didn't have to see the sun no more, because his  _ own  _ sun had left, abandoned him because they knew they could better. Mickey knew Ian could do better. The gun rattled as his bobbed his leg, trying to think about everything that made him smile. Only one thing and now that wasn't there. 

 

The breeze was cold but alcohol could send him warmth. He needed the numbness to do this. It felt as if he was eight years old again; a life he was settled in still fucked and cracked. The tops of his shoulders were wearing away and honestly, he was sick of carrying the weight. The only way he could fly, weightlessly, was to jump. Take that leap of faith. The only place he could do that was here. The roof. The only place he and Ian knew. The only place that could form bad memories and still make him want to smile towards Ian.

 

Taking one last gulp he stood up, the feeling of power just striking him once. The gun was firmly in his palm, off safety and ready to hit, he climbed to the edge, peering over; It wasn't beautiful, it wasn't that light at the end of the tunnel, but at least he could fly for that split second. Ian was right, he couldn't do this to him, Mickey couldn't do it all together. Ian was okay, he  _ would  _ be okay even. The Gallagher's were good, they would look after him. He raised the gun, the cold metal against the side of his temple. Terry had always said the Gallagher's were bad news, he believed that for years, but they weren't. Mickey was bad news, he broke everything he knew. 

 

He felt it was the coward way out, he was just running away from his problems, one by one, leaving behind everyone he  _ needed  _ him. Mandy would be devastated, she wouldn't be-able to pick herself up after Kenyatta beat her down. The kid would grow up without a father, just like he had, he would leave him hanging with the ultimate questions “Who's my dad?” and Mickey knew he would grow up realising his dad was fucking coward. Svetlana would mostly be pissed off, he had formed that sort of relationship with her, one which she relied on him. 

 

The most important one, you could of guessed, was what Ian would think. Mickey would be lying at the bottom of the building, his head smashed against the floor with a gun in shatters around him. What would Ian think? Would he cry, would he even question it was Mickey. It sunk to his heart, would Ian even fucking miss him?

 

The gun was shaking against his skin and he could feel the fresh, hot streams of tears falling against his cheeks. Coward way in, coward way out. Could he do this?  _ Yes.  _ Ian had left and now he felt he couldn't do anything on his own. All his life he was self sufficient, he loved being on his own because it was easier. All he needed was that little attention, affection that grew only from the tree of the person  _ he  _ needed most. For once, he needed someone. And that someone was gone. 

 

“Shit. Mickey?” The voice had sidetracked him from pulling the trigger. He hoped it was Ian, he hoped that Ian was there to pull him away from the drastic thought of ending it all. It was Mandy. He wished it wasn't. Out of all people he didn't want his little sister seeing _this,_ seeing him unable to keep himself standing. Little sisters looked up to their brothers for protection, security, and just to be _there._ All these things Mickey had failed her, he couldn't protect her, not really, he couldn't give her a safe place because he was too pussy to sort it out. And yet, he couldn't even be there for her, because he was deciding whether to end it; deciding whether he should leave his sister alone or to be there like any brother should.

 

They looked at each other just like they did when they were younger, still broken, still hurt but still a team. Mickey dropped the gun, hearing Mandy sigh with relief. One thing he could stop from happening was Mandy watching her brother slip away. Mandy was the first to move, her arms rapidly pulling him back to a balanced ground, her arms winded around his waist and her grip was tight. It solely reminded him of when she had cried into his chest the night their dad had first lashed out, he stuck stiff and let her cry out, yet now, he was the one crying. He was the one barely holding it together and he felt defeated. Life had defeated him once and for all. The sun was gone,  _ Ian,  _ and the darkness felt ever so close now. 

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

The memory was still fastened in his mind; his arms were crushing Mandy's little fragile body, hugging her so hard he had felt he could never move. Out of all the emotions riding him like a bull rider, but he managed to squeeze out the words with a croak. “How did you find me?” He felt weak, so small that he couldn't even sound like he was angry or irritated. It was a shambles of ruins and even his words were playing against him. 

 

Mandy had sighed, instantly making him tense up, her arms soothed his back, not sure how to make out what was happening because she had never, ever, seen Mickey like this. When he had left in a hurry, his eyes bloodshot and weary, she hadn't thought a thing. Mickey was always smoking pot and drinking, not to a huge extent but still. But, however, when he had a gun gripped into his hand she felt something was wrong. If Mickey was going out, he would pocket his gun, he wouldn't flaunt it because he was trying to pry the impression they were  _ respectable.  _ She gave up her babysitting duties and ran out of the house, knowing full well where he would be because Ian talked about it being  _ their  _ place more than enough. After he had asked her how she had found him, she had shot back an immediate answer, because it was the  _ only  _ answer. 

 

“You're my big brother, I need to fucking protect you.” It was the first time Mickey had noticed that someone held him on their shoulders, just like Ian had done. It didn't push over the bearing iron weight on his hunched back, but still it filled in one of the cracks.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

 

Mickey told himself he was over Ian, over and over, in all ways he could. It was hard when everything reminded him of that redhead, there was still stuff lingering around that was just  _ him.  _ The hand writing carved into the bed, Ian's name blatantly obvious to anyone who could see. The “I” still lopsided, and the “N” still larger than the rest. There was the discarded cigarette butts just outside the window pane, Ian would always moan and say that smoking was bad for Yev, they ended up sitting on the ledge, knees just touching. Nothing was more permanent than the stupid smell Ian left on his side of the bed. Mickey still called it that. Ian was still there, in his mind. It wasn't like he slept in it, smelt it and relished what he had left of Ian, that would be something Ian would do. No, he led there and looked over at the empty spot, just staring and hoping that maybe Ian would just suddenly appear facing him. 

 

The only times he had seen Ian was passing on the street. Ian would be wandering around with Lip doing God's knows what, and he would be so engrossed with the conversation that he didn't see Mickey walking on the other side. Ian had always been like that, not selfish but talking so much everything around him just stopped. He seemed happy. When he was talking to Lip there was a smile on his face and a laugh that was too hard to describe. Even if he wasn't feeling up to scratch and on his feet, at least Ian was happy, that's all he really asked for corny or not.

 

All week they had been apart, a week since Mickey had permitted the idea of leaving the world for good. The ex-con still wandered the streets reflecting his known reputation, because that's _all_ he could do. Mandy had kept what happened to herself, knowing deep down Mickey was too.

 

This night however, was different. It was the first time he hadn't looked to the bottle for answers or for a sense of numbness that stopped his mind from thinking of Ian, but only for a couple of seconds. Mickey had climbed into bed and for the first time rolled over to the empty spot, the cold rising up his back from the sheer emptiness of the sheets. Panic rose within him as it didn't smell like Ian any more; just stale cigarettes and cold. Pulling the cover over himself he shifted until he found a comfortable spot, until, he then felt a hard object dig into his arm that was under the pillow.

 

Cursing he fumbled in the dark to find the thing that was ruining his chance to _finally_ sleep. It felt like a book, pages falling out as he pulled it from under the pillow. He leaned over to turn on the broken lamp, only a speck of light making the room that little bit brighter. It was hard to see but it could make it out, he squinted his eyes as the familiar book was in his hands. _What ya writin'?_ His fingers ran over the name on the cover, his finger tracing each letter. _Stuff. Notes, Idea's._ Mickey sat up, still trapped in the bundle of covers now at his feet.

 

Ian and his stupid fucking notebooks. Mickey had seen him writing in it, literally _all_ the time. He had never opened it and he had never asked to. Ian never told him what he wrote, just that maybe one day he would show him. Mickey knew that would never happen now. The questions were all surrounding his head; Why would Ian forget the only thing he kept to himself? Did he leave it on purpose? _No._ Ian could be a soppy bollocks but he was _that_ poetic.

 

Gasping in the air, his fingers twitching for a cigarette that he knew he had smoked minutes before, he opened up the book. It was mostly full of Ian's dumb ambitions. _Why is there not a Gallagher who plays the guitar? I will learn to play the guitar in ten days._ Mickey scoffed at most of them, trying to picture Ian saying them and showering him with that stupid-ass smile. There were a couple of drawings, a few stuck in pictures, there was _even_ a page full of “Mickey's idiot sayings”. _What a fucking dork._ The guilt washed over him, he was reading one of Ian's personal belongings, he had probably left it by accidentally not on purpose. Mickey was used to stealing things, bypassing people's own sensitivity to their personal stuff, but he felt Ian was different; for once he could just be the person Ian had pushed him to be, just for fucking once.

 

Slamming shut the book, he tossed it to the side, retrieving his phone. He didn't feel welcomed to just step into the Gallagher house no more, he and Ian were nothing now, well, that's what he was trying to tell himself. It almost felt like time had reversed itself, but this time Ian was pushing Mickey away. The brunette pushed in the text message, knowing the answer would be quick because he was sure as fuck, she had an obsession with the thing.

 

_**To: Debs –** Yo, Ian's left some shit can you come pick it up? _

 

The reply was instant, just as expected. 

 

_**From: Debs –** Go yourself, I'm not your slave Mickey. Anyway, you guys need to sort stuff out.  _

 

Mickey wished it was easier than she had made it to be. Fuck, he wanted to sort shit out, for the first time in his life he  _ wanted  _ to sort shit out so badly.

 

_**To; Debs -** It aint that easy, he don't wanna see me. So, can you come get the shit or what? _

 

He eyed the notebook, it wasn't  _ exactly  _ shit.

 

_**From; Debs –** I actually cant, we are at Fi's bosses house. Ian's the only one in, he said he had a headache or something _

 

Mickey cursed to himself,  _ fuck,  _ he didn't know whether he could face Ian, not yet. It would all come springing back and he didn't want to be looking down to his fate again. He didn't want to feel like he was a eight year old boy standing on that railing looking over at the iced over lake.

 

_**To Debs –** Looks like I have to fucking do it then _

 

_**from Debs –** Please try and sort it out, Ian's been really quiet since he came back _

 

Mickey's heart pounded, the last time Ian began to get quiet he didn't move from the bed for days. As quick as his legs could take him he jumped from the bed, his pulled up his black, scraggy jeans and chucked on a top he swore was Ian's, or Lips, he just knew it was one of the fucking Gallagher's. But, however, when he lept up, grabbing the book, something flew to the floor. It didn't cause a bang so he instantly knew it was something from Ian's notes. As his second shoe was pulled on, he picked up the paper which was slightly crumpled. 

 

At first, he imagined it to be another “Way's in which Mickey is a fucking idiot.”, but it caught his eye that it was Ian's scrawny handwriting in the format of a diary. Mickey never gave a fuck, diaries were made to be read, that's his motto anyway. He settled himself back onto the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress. 

 

He opened it up, it was folded like it had been opened a couple of times. Quickly his eyes scanned over, not sure what to expect but he went ahead anyway. 

 

_ Mickey thinks I don't see him falling apart. He's a fucking idiot, how can he not see that I know he goes out for a cigarette at 3 in the morning because he has continuous nightmares which wake him up each night. I know a lot of things about Mickey, not just his cursing vocabulary. I know that Mickey likes to watch movies with Mandy because it reminds him of when they were kids, a time where it seemed easier. I know that he counts the freckles on my back, and gets frustrated when I shift and he looses count. I know that he sleeps on his front so when he wakes up the sun doesn't burn his eyes. I know that he likes to be the little spoon because it lets him feel safe for once in his life. I know that because I can see him relax in my arms, when I do respond to him, I still hate myself for that now.  _

 

_ Mickey doesn't deserve this. Me and my shitty disorder is tearing him down and I'm not sure if I can watch him crumble any more. If I leave then he can be happy, truly happy. I know he will be a good dad, it will take time but I know he will be. He doesn't believe in himself, not like I did. I believe that Mickey could have a better life, have someone better, someone who would hold him like he should and not sink into the bed like some fucking ghost. Mickey didn't deserve to be with someone who sleeps with guys because his impulses were too strong to control. I Can't just stay and hurt him more and more and let him say “Its okay, we can get through it.” because Mickey is still hurting.  _

 

_ I love him. I do. I know that now. At first I was scared to say I did because I wasn't sure whether he did too, so I kept it to myself. Maybe, I should of told him. No, I have to tell him. Right now he's cooking me something up, he's always doing that. I used to do that. Why is he so nice, even with his thuggish attitudes and shitty reputation; he was always nice to be, secretly. I'm going to tell him, I am. I'm going to leave and make sure he doesn't have to baby me any more because he deserves so much better. I'm selfish and I use him, he shouldn't have to lay next to me say stuff to me, he shouldn't have to do that. He shouldn't have to burn to keep others warm.  _

 

 

_ I'm going to tell him when he gets back from work, I might even tell him I love him if I actually can buck up the courage. I'm a fucking coward and I know I won't be able to get my words out, just like Mickey did that day. I forgive him for that but I know he still beats himself up about it.  _

 

_ I don't care if he tries to make me stay, I know he's hurting and I know he should be happy. I love him. I Ian Gallagher love Mickey, but I love him so much I can't hurt him any more.  _

 

 

Mickey hadn't realised he was crying until the speck of water fell against the paper. Wiping his eyes he pulled back a breath, biting his lip to bit back the tears.  _ Fuck, Ian. Fuck Ian trying to make Mickey's life decisions. If he wants to look after Ian, talk to him when he's not speaking, he can fucking do that.  _ Bucking up the courage, because he suddenly felt like a pussy with hormonal problems, he told himself that he  _ had  _ to see Ian. Not only, to give him back his notebook, but to actually spurt out his feelings because, by God, Ian needed to hear it. 

 

Looking up at the Gallagher house was something that felt distant, he hadn't seen the door in a whole week; it felt like years. All the lights were off, he could feel guilty for barging in and possibly waking Ian up, but this had to be done. The door was unlocked, like usual, he expected to see Fiona moping on the sofa or Lip doing some college work on the table, but nothing. Debbie had said they weren't in, and his gut tensed at that thought. It was just him and Ian, and the bickering tension built between them. 

 

“ _Gallagher?”_ He shouted as he reached the couch, looking around to see nothing Ian-like. The house was typically a mess, but even he knew, now, that babies were fucking out to mess up a clean house. There was still no answer, and even Mickey knew that Ian would at least say something. _Shit,_ Mickey had probably barged in when Ian was fucking his new boyfriend, he was probably going to feel that heated hurt once again. Fuck it, he could deal with it, he just needed to see. 

 

The stairs were not a challenge, nothing compared the feeling of negative anticipation. “Ay, Gallagher. You left your shit.” The bedroom door was shut, as all of them were. The bathroom was empty, just a couple of knocked over bottles spread across the floor. Again, he felt that tingling feeling that told him something was off. Ian still hadn't answered and the house was a piercing silence that fucked him up even more. 

 

His best guess was Ian's room, expectedly Ian was probably tucked under the sheets cornering himself off from everyone. In Ian's language, something Mickey had finally got to grips with, a headache was not a headache. He pushed the door open, at first imagining it to be locked; Mandy had told him Ian put the lock on to keep Frank out. “Ian, fuck off if you are going to go batshit- 

 

His eyes laid onto a sight he never, ever, wished to see. The lifeless body wasn't curled in himself in the single bed, it was sprawled against the floor, the redness in his cheeks like a ghost. Ian's hair was as bright as the pool of blood surrounding his soaked wrists. From where Mickey had froze he could see how deep the cuts were, he could see how Ian was barely hanging on to his last breath and for once he didn't know what to do. 

 

Instinctively, he fell to his knees, grabbing anything to cover the wounds up. Ian was light, too light, Mickey easily pulled him onto his lap, tears riding down his face. “Fuck, Ian. Can you hear me? Shit, Ian?” His voice rambled on, clutching to Ian like he was his heart beat. 

 

Ian moaned quietly against his chest, his skin growing colder as Mickey frantically dialled the ambulance and screamed down the phone to get to them. The blood was all over him, but he didn't care; He needed to save Ian, right now, he needed to keep him alive. “Open your eyes, fuck. Fuck you, you don't get to do this.” The tears mixed with the finger prints that were all over Ian's face now. He rocked on the spot, still securing the sheet-made bandages around the younger boys arms. 

 

Mickey continued to kiss Ian's damp hair, catching his drooping eyes and slapping his cheek to keep him awake. “Hurry the fuck up.” he whispered himself, holding Ian in his arms like a mother to her child. Ian didn't get to leave, Ian didn't get to drown in his own darkness so Mickey could see the light. The thing was, Mickey couldn't see the light, not when Ian was gone. It was slipping through his fingers and the longer he whispered the sentimental words to his boyfriend the more he panicked he'd never get to hold him, ever again. 

 

“Mick?” The voice made him release a gasp, Mickey palmed Ian's cheek looking down to see the red head's eyes flutter. “What- what- He coughed out in confusion, his body getting lighter each second the ambulance didn't come. He, too, was crying all over the place, his chest shaking against Mickey's. 

 

“Shut the fuck up, you need to keep your energy. Let me talk. _I_ will talk.” Mickey didn’t' notice what he was saying, his mind was riddled, smashed to bits from seeing Ian in a pool of his own blood. Crying was unnoticeable now, he didn't even feel it against his swollen cheeks. Ian nodded slowly, so slowly that it made Mickey yelp up with panic that maybe this could be his last breaths, but he could feel the twitch of his pinky against Mickey's wrist. 

 

“You are so fucking stupid, why did you do this, huh? I get that you have the same shitty gene as Monica, but you ain't your fucking mother. Just like you told me I ain't like my dad.” His hands struggled to find somewhere to sooth him, moving from his back to his hands, to his hair. Ian's breathing was getting slower, and he swore he could hear the sirens getting closer. “Fuck, Ian. Just- Just, I know you fucking think this is what you _have_ to do, but you're wrong.” As soon as he said the words, ready to burst out with all his feelings ,the paramedics bundled through. They pulled Ian away from Mickey, one of them pushing Mickey off were trying to get him back, he couldn't loose him twice in one week, not again. 

 

As they placed him on a stretcher, allowing him to come with them, he felt the light ripping away from it. It was being stolen by the stupid disorder, and the cracks in his back were growing wider, the darkness slowly seeping through. Ian was dying right in front of him and it was all because of his bullshit, Ian thought he was the problem, but Mickey was prepared to fix it. 

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Mickey hated hospitals. They were full of coughing old people, and crying relatives. The waiting room was a drone of fear, crying, moaning because of how hurt one of them was. It was a space of destruction and crushed Mickey into a ball. Ian had been there for over eight hours, there was still no information and it was really,  _ really,  _ starting to get on his fucking nerves. The heavy weight was pulling him down, shaking him with fear, Ian could be dead.  _ Could, could, could.  _ He didn't want to believe that small percentage that it could be true. 

 

A hand shook him out of the darkness, he opened his eyes to a man dressed in a white coat, holding a clipboard. Abruptly, he shot up, pulling himself together to hear the news on the  _ only  _ light in his life. “Can I see him yet?” The doctor looked unsure, glancing over Mickey like every fucker did. They looked at him in disgust, never truly understanding how Ian could go for someone like Mickey, but fuck them. Fuck them and their stupid assumptions. “Jesus, Can no one give me a straight fucking answer in here!” 

 

The doctor flinched but remained himself, gesturing to the close nurse that he had it under control. “Ian is in a critical state, he's awake but still barely moving. The loss of blood was more than half of what his body requires, so we are keeping him in here for a couple of days, maybe a week. Are you a relative?” His voice was calm, way to fucking calm for something like this. 

 

Mickey was violently tearing at his nail, taking in all the details that told him Ian was fragile. Because of him, again. The doctor nodded towards him for him to answer. “He's my fucking- my boyfriend.” It was the first time he had called him that, despite the situation, it felt right. The doctor seemed hesitant but looking over at Mickey's tattoo's he discarded the thought of telling him he wasn't aloud to see him. 

“You can see him now, but please be careful of the wires. The machines are helping him keep on his feet.” The doctor gave one last nod before leading Mickey to the room at the bottom of the corridor. As soon as the handle was in sight, the doctor had left. Mickey was going to say _everything,_ even if Ian didn't want to fucking hear it. 

 

As soon as he stepped in he was drawn to the robotic body laid against the white sheets. There were machines wired up to him, tubes in arms and around noses. There were thick bandages around his wrists, all giving him flashes of what he had seen prior. Ian looked lifeless, it hurt more when he didn't respond, but this, Ian looked like a thin, weak, fragile little boy that Mickey had been awoken by those years ago. 

 

Absently, stalling, he flicked through Ian's charts and information, glancing up to capture Ian's steady breathing. “Fuck you.” Mickey spat out, it came out softer than expected. He paced the floor, shredding his coat and throwing it over to the chair in the corner. He wasn't sure whether Ian could hear but the doctor had said he was awake. 

 

“Do you have any idea how fucking pissed at you I am?” He waited for an answer that never came. “You scared the fuck outta me, God fucking knows what would of happened in your family would of found you.” He took a strayed chair and pulled it next to the bed, he hadn't seen this boy for a week, he needed that reassurance that he was still there. Slowly, he put his own hand into Ian's. Closing his eyes to breath in before his next explosion would occur. 

 

“I'm sorry Mick. I just- It was just a way out.” Mickey's eyes darted up at the sound of Ian's crispy voice. The red head's hand weakly squeezed his own, a weak smile pointing up on Ian's face. Mickey rubbed at his forehead with his freehand, the room some-how getting hotter. “They would get over it. You would get over it.”

 

The tears were waiting, he could feel them, his back was crushing, but somehow slowly building up. “A way ou- Fuck that, Ian. You don't get to just leave and expect people to be able to just fucking move on. You know that more than anybody, so fuck you.” He groaned in frustration; How could Ian be so fucking oblivious to all the people that care about, all the people he had helped. “I, er, read your notebook. I'm a idiot I fucking know, you wrote it enough.” 

 

Ian snorted next to him, not showing an ounce of anger at him for going through his things. Mickey hated the way his heart would flutter at that laugh, make his insides go all funny, he hated the way that he nearly forgotten what it sounded like. “I read that stupid, dumb ass confession to yourself. You know what Gallagher, you don't get to choose what's fucking best for me? A'right, its not your choice. It ain't Terry's, it ain't Mandy's, its fucking mine.  _ I  _ know what's best for me. I do.” He didn't even count on exploding at him like that, but this needed to be drilled into Ian. 

 

The redhead just watched, teary eyed when straightening up. It would probably be the first time Mickey had spoken about how he felt, for a long period of time. “You don't get how many people care about ya, you don't fucking see it. Well, I do. I see the way that Fiona  _ needs  _ you because Mandy looks at me like that. Lip may be an asshole but if he had found you lying their In your own blood I think he would question his own life too. Don't forget Debbie, she's like a fucking angel and I don't think she could cope without her big brother being there. The thing with Carl is he doesn't speak to much, he doesn't  _ love  _ to much, but that's what I'm fucking like and I know he idolizes you.” Mickey pointed his eyes towards Ian, watching as he used his other arm to shield him seeing the tears weep out. 

 

“Were you just gonna leave Liam? Huh, traumatize that kid more. Fuck, don't even forget Mandy. She was barely breathing on the phone when I rang her a couple of hours back, you have no _fucking_ idea. Hell, even Frank fucking needs you. When I tried to kill him you hid him away, that's the dad who abandoned you, beat you up like a fucking punching bag, but _still_ you made sure he was okay.” The list could go on, but he was saving himself for when he told Ian how _he_ would feel. 

 

Ian beat him too it. “What about you? What would you feel?” His voice was croaky, the tears latching onto his pink lips that earlier were nearly blue. Mickey flinched at the question, it caught him off guard, he wasn't prepared to answer a straight question. Fuck, Ian was still direct even when he was literally clinging onto his strength. 

 

_ Good question. What would he do?  _ Mickey's teeth dug deeper into his lip. First instinct was to tell him to fuck off, that he already knew what Mickey would do. But when he saw the look in Ian's eyes, hopelessness, he knew he had to tell him, it was crucial to Ian's sanity. “I don't get you sometimes, you see the best in everyone, even fucking  _ Frank,  _ and yet, you can't see how fucking good you are. Jesus Ian, when you left I literally went insane. Corny as it fucking sounds I didn't think I could cope without ya, I even tried to-” his mind flickered back to the roof, the gun, Mandy clutching him tight, he pushed it away; it would kill Ian if he knew. 

 

“Do you think I would be able to cope with you gone, for _good?_ I need you Ian. For once in my shitty life I _need_ someone, and I don't give a fuck if you still want to leave I'mma barricade the fucking house if you try. Trust me. I'm yours and your fucking mine, that is the deal. That's it.” He calmed him heavy breathing, his eyes tearing but he pushed it back with all the strength he had. Ian, however, was a bundle of mess, his eyes rimmed red just like the day he had left. “So fuck you for trying to leave, there ain't no easy way out, there never has been.” 

 

Mickey took the moment to breath, his hand gripping tighter to Ian's.  _ God, if his younger self saw this now he would beat his ass up. _ Ian looked from their fingers to Mickey's face, not sure how to defend himself because he knew Mickey was right. Guilty but insecure he watched himself as he asked this question. “So, you still want me?” His voice was quiet, as if he didn't  _ really  _ want Mickey to hear. 

 

Jesus, Mickey wanted to smash up a wall at this point. Even after his gigantic, sloppy speech Ian  _ still  _ didn't see that Mickey was there, for fucking good. Stuck like chewing gum on concrete. People might stamp on them and try to fuck them up, especially the disorder, but he's still stuck. “Like a moth to fucking flame.”

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A couple of weeks later Ian was finally aloud to go home. His  _ real  _ home. He had been released a week after he was admitted and he was soon to be sent to the psychiatric hospital, one he had promised would help him out. The Gallagher's had been keeping a watch on him, waiting for him to blow up like a ticking time bomb. Mickey was different, he didn't pawn him with over the top compliments so he could stay “happy”, he knew it wasn't like that. Mickey knew better than anyone, masking your emotions is easier than people make it out to be. 

 

Ian was sprawled against his bare chest, his eyes still wet from crying about being so distant from everyone in barely a weeks time. Mickey had calmed him down, took the hands away from the stitches still in his arms, he couldn't let that happen again. Finally, after soothing him down they laid in silence, Ian's breath tickling Mickey's skin in a weird, comforting way. 

 

The thought lingered in his mind, he had once tried to take his life, not once but twice. How could he just forget his own words; he had forgotten about all the people he had in his life,  _ fuck,  _ he had forgotten about how Ian would feel. Then his mind sprung back to the notebook, it had been fresh in his mind ever since.  _ I love him. I do.  _ The handwriting was still memorized in his mind, the little curl of the “e” making his stomach curdle. Ian shifted a little on his chest. 

 

“Ian?”

 

“Hmm.” 

 

Mickey wasn't sure how to start, but he guessed talking would be the right choice. “I, er, I'm fucking shit at words.” He grunted in annoyance, relishing the fact Ian giggled against his chest. He missed that sound, he  _ needed  _ that sound. “Shut up, I'm loosing my concentration.” 

 

Ian lifted his head slightly, “Do I distract you Milkovich?” His hair was almost everywhere, his eyes sleepy and cheeks flushed. Mickey was a fucking pansy for thinking Ian was beautiful, but he couldn't deny the truth. Ian Gallagher was fucking beautiful, Jesus. 

 

“Fuckin' hell, stop it would you I'm trying to tell you something here.” Ian quietened at that, biting his lip and regaining his position on Mickey's chest. Mickey wasn't sure if the words would even come out; he had been told all of his life that love was weak, if you tell someone you love them it creates attachments that might never be there. This one, he knew was there, for good. It didn't matter how many fucking sayings and teachings Terry had drilled into his head, he could easily fight them off. 

 

Word were shit. They were pointless, he had never noticed that till now. Ian had never actually said the three words, he  _ knew  _ Mickey had read them though. Mickey didn't have to say it to let Ian know he meant it. Just as Ian did he wrote it, wrote it on the most important thing.  _ Fuck, it's like they were living a Nicolas sparks movie, fucking hell. _

 

The red head hummed as Mickey traced his finger along his back, shaping out the letter “I”. Gently he moved to the next word, he trailed out a heart,  _ Fuck, he was such a girl.  _ Finishing the heart, he drew out the letter “U”, his heart fluttering once his drawing was complete. Ian didn't say anything, and Mickey was glad; he kissed at Mickey's bare skin and tightened his arms. It felt like he was blinded by the light that he felt Ian glow, it had never been brighter.

 

Mickey would of never guessed that the heavy weight on his back, the responsibilities the hurt, could get lighter. But he guessed he had someone to share the weight with now, someone who would defiantly take more of the weight so he could keep it together. It was like Mandy always fucking said; 

 

“Darkness exists to make light truly count.” _Fucking sap._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
